Listen to the Rain
by Gold That Glistens
Summary: Sherlock attempts to define his relationship with John. (Minor slash) Reviews are welcome :)
1. Listen to the Rain Fall

_Listen to the rain fall_  
 _(Slowly, dripping)_

 _Listen to the world spin_  
 _(Gently, turning)_

 _Listen to a heart beat_  
 _(Steady, thumping)_

 _Listen to my love_  
 _(For you)_

* * *

Rainy days were perfect for Bach.

Sherlock rolled the arpeggiated Cello Suites through his hands, through his mind. He knew it sounded far better on rich velvet of the cello, but he couldn't stop playing, even as the violin made the smooth notes shrill and piercing. Sherlock relaxed as the grey of the flat was warmed by violin's harmony with the patter of rain.

If John were to play an instrument, John would play the cello, Sherlock mused. For, while Sherlock embodied the violin in all it's primadonna glory, John was grounded, secure, as the cello was to the floor by its end pin. While Sherlock followed the violin's screeching, insane, ( _crazy)_ dominance, John exuded the calm, mellow, rich tone of the cello. And the cello, like John, could never be underestimated. Power lay behind the smooth polished, modest exterior.

Sherlock could feel himself loosing control. He had surrounded himself by cold hard facts for a very long time. For he knew that love, any kind of love, was a distraction. John, Mrs. Hudson... Hell, even Mycroft. Distractions; all of them.

Sherlock only wanted to lose control in music. That's what music was for, to represent the human emotions that he had difficulty identifying and displaying. He let loose his disgustingly sappy feelings of love ( _really quite_ _a weakness, he thinks)_ in Mahler. Lush streaming notes, smiling, sighing, pleading with the world. (Don't let them die, don't let them die. Not now, not ever.) Sherlock quickly banishes an image of a pale silent ( _dead)_ John that pops up rather shockingly, unbidden, unwanted.

Music was for letting out the rush of the thrill of a case and the intoxication of cocaine (h _e guilty thinks of John. No drugs, all clean, he tells himself)_. He contemplated the last case, recalling the breath-taking chase through London, John at his heels, their breath fogging the air. Sherlock felt his fingers unconsciously switch into the second movement of Shostakovich's eighth quartet, matching his memories, heart pumping, adrenaline racing, louder, louder, faster, gunshots, ambulances wailing, screaming, pounding, running- ! _Silence._

The rain had stopped.

Sherlock untightened his bow, wiped the rosin off his violin, and packed it gently in its case. He resumed his position on the couch, hands in prayer position, eyes to the ceiling. He could not pretend that John's death would mean nothing. For once, he felt that maybe there was something worse than death. Being left behind. ( _Abandoned, his brain whispers_.)

Sherlock squared his shoulders and breathed in.  
He hadn't felt this strong of an urge for touch, for companionship, since his early childhood. It scared him more than Moriarty, more than any serial killer alive, for while they could be defeated with square precise logic of his ( _brilliant)_ mind, his emotions would never yield to a rational argument. As he pictured John's soft short hair, his laugh lines, his knarled scar, Sherlock worried that in his absence from the world of romantic love, he was mistaking a longing for friendship as the pining for a soul-mate. ( _Soul-mate, Sherlock laughs to himself. What utter rubbish was his mind becoming.)_

It was friendship, he decided firmly, and closed his eyes.

* * *

 **If, by any chance, anyone is interested in the musical compositions mentioned, I have listed them below. If you are not, no worries! Skip this next section entirely!**

J. S. Bach - The Prelude in Cello Suites No. 1 and Prelude in Cello Suite No. 2 (BVW 1007 and 1008)  
 _(Though the Prelude in Cello Suite No. 1 is probably one of the most recognizable pieces of classical music, the 6 Cello Suites were not always so popular, languishing in obscurity for quite a bit and were considered to be only technical exercises, before being brought into popularity by Pablo Casals._ _)_

G. Mahler - _Adagietto_ from Symphony No. 5  
 _(Reportedly Mahler's love song to his wife, Alma Schindler.)_

D. Shostakovich - _Allegro Molto_ in String Quartet No. 8  
 _(Dedicated to the "victims of fascism and war", this incredibly dark piece was written in three days when Shostakovich viewed the devastation left by the bombing of Dresden. Allegedly somewhat a eulogy to himself, Shostakovich wrote his name into the piece with the four note motif D, S (E-flat), C, H (B-natural).)_

Thank you very much for reading! Any questions, comments, concerns are always welcome! :)


	2. Listen the the World Spin

Sherlock heard the distinct rhythm of John's steps up the stairs. The beat was somewhat syncopated; John had just come back from Tesco's, and the shopping bags impeded his normal walking pattern. Sherlock sighed as he heard John trampling about in the kitchen, no doubt grumbling about Sherlock's experiment with _Stachybotrys_.

"Alright?" came John's voice. Sherlock turned and opened his eyes. He watched John's greying hair ( _it was damp, he offered someone his umbrella)_ , saw the splashes of mud on the bottom of trousers ( _Mud pattern is ankle height; John walked home from Tesco's),_ and observed the curious grey/brown of John's eyes ( _Distraction; his eyes are captivating)_.

John gave him a look. "Alright, then," John turned to walk away. Sherlock suddenly realized he had been staring at John. _(For quite a while, his brain adds unhelpfully.)_

John busied himself in the kitchen, presumably making a cup of tea.

"Met a girl at Tesco's?" Sherlock didn't mean for his voice to sound so accusing.

"Yeah," John responded, emerging with two steaming mugs. He handed one to Sherlock. "Drink." He gave Sherlock that look again, the one where he raises an eyebrow and peers at him through his left eye. The look that says he knows Sherlock hasn't eaten. Sherlock motioned for John to put the tea on the table. ( _How can he say no to tea from John_ _?)_

"Ehh erm." Sherlock frowned. When has he ever uttered such idiotic non-lexical conversation sounds such as "ehh"? He must be loosing it.

 _"_ So you have a date tonight?" Sherlock finally asks.

"No," said John. "Told her I had other obligations." He grinned at Sherlock. "Want some curry?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Just as long as it doesn't come from the place you got it last. I found fecal matter coating the chicken." His mind mulled over John's "other obligations". He asked John to come with him to the morgue today. Did John turn down that girl to come with him? His stomach gave a little swoop at the thought. He internally shook his head. _(Honestly, he's becoming such a sentimental idiot.)_

John shuddered. "Ugh. Thank god, no. That other curry came from that dodgy place 'cause nothing else was opened at such a ungodly hour. This restaurant is alright." He walked into the kitchen and placed the curry on the table.

Sherlock came to sit at the table. He poked at his curry. "Are you meeting her tomorrow?"

"Nope. No dates in the foreseeable future either. Happy?" John does not meet Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock feigned disinterest, "Yes. Now you won't let your ridiculous love life get in the way of The Work." He sniffed and gave John an impassive stare ignoring his stomach's chacha of happiness.

"Just eat your bloody curry," John sighed, and began moodily stabbing at the curry.

"Ahh," said Sherlock. So it was one of those days. He eats a bit of curry, the silence thicker than agrarose gel.

Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his pocket. "Cheer up, old chap, we have a case!"

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Sherlock does not recall how they ended up in a filthy alley in the shadiest part of London, cornered by the assassins. He was bleeding; someone had taken a lucky stab at him earlier. He wasn't too worried, perhaps even a bit cocky. He could hear the shouts of Lestrade and his team running towards them. The assassins weren't too bright. They were only armed with knives. The idiots had used up their many rounds of bullets firing at Sherlock and John when they were too far away to get hit.

Time seemed to slow down as a gun shot rang out. He fell to the ground feeling a heavy weight on his chest and blood trickling down his arm. He opened his eyes and saw a grey John slumped on top of him, eyes closed.

"JOHN!"

His voice was anguished. He felt as though he could not breath. _(John, John, John, please)._

Someone carried John off of him. Sherlock heard the screech of ambulances. He felt as though the bullet had hit his own heart, had never felt pain this badly. Sherlock blindly follows John's _(beautiful wonderful caring)_ body as it is put on the stretcher.

He glared at the paramedics when they try to restrain him from following John into the ambulance. "I AM GOING WITH JOHN," he screams, not caring if he looks deranged attempting to punch one of the stupid buggers in the face.

They let him go with John. Sherlock sat in the back of the ambulance as the paramedics bustled around John. Sherlock felt dizzy when he looked at the blood. He _never_ feels dizzy at the sight of blood. He's seen blood a hundred thousand times. Someone placed a blanket around his shoulders ( _orange, disgusting color)._

 _(John, John, John, John...Stay alive, please. Please.)_

His hands shook, his vision blurred, his world tilted on its axis. He pretended that he was holding John's warm hands and wept like a child. _(Pathetic, his brain castigates.)_


	3. Listen to a Heart Beat

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The metronome of the EKG machine drilled into Sherlock's head. Mycroft had threatened to tranquilize Sherlock if he continued to terrorize the hospital staff, so Sherlock stood guard outside outside John's room, waiting and hoping. He knew that John had taken the bullet for him. If John died, it would be his fault.

Sherlock was not a religious person. But in this instant, he prayed for John. ( _Please, let John live, his heart prays, as his brain laughs 'illogical, illogical')._ He closed his eyes and dreamed of John.

He imagined John back at Baker Street, sitting on the couch, typing with the ridiculous one fingered technique of the technologically impaired. He imagined dramatically flopping onto the couch, burying his cold toes under John's legs, while John smiles, swatting at Sherlock's legs. He imagined just sitting with John's comforting presence, for forever and forever.

He imagined simple actions, like eating with John at Angelos, taking John's hand as they run down the street, and laughing with John after solving a case. He imagined smiling at John, giving John a hug _(though he despises unnecessary physical contact, he will because it is John.)_ He imagines giving John a swift chaste kiss on the cheek. _("Platonic friendship, my arse," his brain smirks sounding remarkably like Donovan.)_

He imagined John, with his forehead wrinkled in worry, his mouth quirked in a smile. Sherlock felt his heart ache. Why the hell couldn't he be in there? Why did it have to be John?

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He opened his eyes to Lestrade's concerned face. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. How long have you been standing here for? Did Mycroft leave you here?"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock muttered ( _John is of primary importance_ _). "_ Where is John?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Goddamnit. You're bleeding. Let's get you fixed up then, shall we?" He steered an unwilling Sherlock towards a doctor.

"Where is John?" Sherlock spat through clenched teeth as the doctor bandaged his wound. _(Why are people so stupid?)_

"Shhh. John'll be alright," said Lestrade comfortingly. "He's serious, but stable. It wasn't as nearly bad as they originally thought." Lestrade ran a hand through his short silver hair, and sighed.

"I want to see him," insisted Sherlock. "Now." He couldn't help feeling that Lestrade was mollycoddling him. It was Sherlock's fault that John was injured.

Lestrade led Sherlock to John's room.

"Family?" asked a nurse. "Only family allowed in." Lestrade showed her paperwork _(Mycroft, Sherlock thinks gratefully)_ and she lets them in.

John looked horrible. He was pale and clammy. Sherlock sat besides his bed and just absorbed the feeling of being near John. _(Never again will this happen, never again.)_

Sherlock gently held John's hand. The room seemed blurry. He realized he was crying again.

"Hey, mate. It's ok," Lestrade put a comforting hand on Sherlock's back. _(It's not fucking ok, Sherlock thinks.)_

He faced Lestrade. "Thank you." He swallowed, the noise sounding loud in the quiet room.

"Anytime, mate. I'll leave you two alone then," Lestrade walked out of the room with one last pat to Sherlock's sholders.

Sherlock looked at John. _(Alive.)_ He let go of a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. _(John is alive.)_


	4. Listen to My Love

Random switch to John's POV :P

* * *

John opened his eyes. He felt like he had just gotten run over by an elephant in a tank. Twice.

He saw a haggard looking Sherlock, who was holding his hand and glaring at the hospital wall. Sherlock had dark purple circles under his puffy eyes. His lips were chapped and a brilliant fushia bruise was blooming on his neck.

John blinked. "Sherlock," he rasped. It hurt to breath, let alone talk.

Sherlock jumped at stared at him. "John," he said softly and stared at John. John stared back at his flatmate. They must have sat like that for a few minutes, when Sherlock suddenly started, "John..."

John blinked his conformation to continue. Moving hurt too much at this point.

"Thank you," continued Sherlock. "Thank you for making tea, for getting groceries, for helping with cases. Thank you for taking care of me, whether it be for my injuries, my eating habits, or my emotional health. Thank you for being there to save my life." Sherlock chokes a bit.

"That's what friends are for," John interjected because it looks like every "thank you" is paining Sherlock. And, when he thinks about, because it is true. Sherlock is his best friend. Sherlock shook his head and took another breath. John lay back. He could tell Sherlock had been mulling over this speech for however long he had been out.

"Don't talk any more you'll hurt yourself. And I don't think I've appreciated how much you make up an integral part of my life. Your decision to room with me was the best decision anyone has made in my life. I was a mess before I knew you. I was addicted to drugs. I was almost not human, a crime solving machine. I was more socially inept than I am now, if you can believe that."

Throughout his speech Sherlock had move closer and closer to John, until John became practically cross eyed trying to look at him.

"Even though I am surrounded by brainless idiots, my life is made decidedly not-boring by _you_. You surprise me at every turn. I cannot deduce your thoughts or your actions. I can only admire your altruism to other human beings, your expertise as a medical personal, your aesthetically pleasing physical characters, and your bravery. You..." Sherlock's voice faltered and he looked at his hand intertwined with John's hand. "You mean more to me than any other person in this world, and even though I know I do not hold the same position in your life, I want you to know that."

John smiled, "You idiot." He quickly kissed Sherlock on the lips.

"I...I...I...I" Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times looking rather like a fish.

"Sorry," whispered John. He turned away blushing. He can blame it on the painkillers, if he needs to.

"I...I...I...I"

"It's ok, Sherlock. You don't need to respond. I'm sorry," said John. What had he been thinking? He kissed the bloke who was married to his work.

Sherlock finally gathered his thoughts enough to say, "No! _I_ was supposed to kiss you first! I had it all planned out." John can hear the pout in Sherlock's voice.

John gave snort of laughter, and quickly stopped. Laughing hurt like hell.

"Hmm. But just as I said, you make my life decidedly not boring." John felt warm chapped lips press against his cheek.

He smiled and gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze. "Sherlock," he whispered as he closed his eyes.

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 _Six months later..._

John wakes up to the cheerful sound of Mozart drifting through the flat. He smells delicious eggs and burnt toast. Ever since Sherlock defenestrated the toaster, it had been slightly overcooking their toast, slightly over cooking as in charring the toast black.

The Mozart concerto stops, and he hears Sherlock open the door to their room.

"Morning," he greets Sherlock.

Sherlock nods at John and kisses him on the cheek. "Brought you eggs and toast."

John smiles at Sherlock and accepts the food. Sherlock flops back into bed and presses his toes into John's warm legs.

"Sherlock!" John exclaims. "Bloody hell, your toes are freezing!"

Sherlock laughs a little manically, as he warms his icicle like fingers on John's belly. John rolls his eyes, and accepts his role as a human heater.

Sherlock snuggles his face into John's neck. Sherlock mumbles something that sounds like, "Dove poo."

John chuckles, "Love you, too, Sherlock."

 **THE END**

* * *

I'm sorry that was pretty bad. It was my first fanfic, so and yeah, was pretty horrific. Thank you very much for reading it. :P

Hopefully I'll improve somehow as time goes on!

I really appreciate reviews, as I would like to eventually get better at this whole writing business.

I am kinda new to fanfiction, so am not entirely sure how to respond to private messages and such, but I'll figure it out someday!

Peace.


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